


The Wild

by orphan_account



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Multi, Newt being sad, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Percival Graves can be described as latent, coming into his Sentinel abilities incredibly late in his life at thirty-three years old. Knowing this, Newt thinks it's best to stay a while in New York and help the poor man out. He knows how much this whole Sentinel and Guide business could be incredibly frustrating and not to mention painful.





	1. Rose Red and Snow White

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to my beta unawesumlyme. Worship the ground she walks on. This fic wouldn't fic without be as good without her.

The lady with the red hair looks like she could be his mother. Their hair matched, the colour reddened wood, and sprinkles of brown dotted her skin. Their eyes were green. Like him, she’s good with animals. The hippogriffs under her care take to her, nuzzling into her hand and bowing out of respect. She prefers the taste of Earl Grey in the morning and Darjeeling in the evening, she likes to decorate her spaces with the brightest of colours and there’s a soothing tone to her voice that could lull you to sleep easily.

But Newt knows Róisín Scamander isn’t his mother. She’s his aunt.

Newt’s actual mother was Eira, a woman with pale, almost ghostly white skin, long flowing ebony hair reaching down to her waist, with a delicate and fragile build. She used to walk out into the woods, carrying a basket in one hand and Newt’s hand in the other. She would know the names of plants by heart and what they could do. She would burn candles that made the cottage in which Newt lived smell like the flower fields far from their rural French countryside home. Magic would run through her entire being as blood, fascinating constructs of pale light dancing at her fingertips, flourishing.

Eira withered after Father had left. At first, she was physically fine, but as time dragged on, and days turned into weeks and then months and years eventually, it became apparent that she was not. Newt watched helplessly as the magic she used to create snowflakes out of thin air inside her swelled up and eventually devoured her whole.

Róisín arrived a week after Eira had died. She found Newt attending to the garden at the front of the cottage, knees muddy, face dirtied, hands soiled and quieter than usual. When she asked where Eira was, Newt only looked to the fully grown willow tree that hadn’t been there the last time Róisín was there ten months ago by the cottage with a mournful look on his face and said she had died. Róisín asked where the body was. Newt told her his mother’s corpse was where Eira wanted it to be—home.

Newt came to live with Auntie Róisín after that. Like Eira, Róisín lived in the countryside, where everything was much colder and damper. Magical enchantments stopped rain from falling on the Scamander estate and allowed the hippogriffs to roam freely, but it didn’t change the fact it still rained.

Newt suddenly has restrictions: restrictions on how many magical and non-magical creatures he can bring home; restrictions on how far he can wander and what time he should; when he can go to bed; how he should talk to people …

It’s all very, very frustrating.

Newt finds it weird to have middle names and a family name. Newton _Artemis Fido Scamander._

Newton was for Isaac Newton, a muggle scientist that Newt’s father had held great respect for. Newt understands the need for a first name. He needed to have it. It’d be silly other wise.

Artemis for his aunt’s favourite Greek goddess, a being of the Wild, beasts and hunting.

Fido for Róisín’s favourite hippogriff.

Eira didn’t believe in names other than your first one. She was simply Eira and her child was simply Newt. She said it tied her down. Newt understands now—he certainly believes that, too. The Scamander name was one of old lineage, with members from all over the world, but held great derision by others since the Scamanders believed that laws were merely guidelines and mixed freely with ‘muggles’.

Whatever was wrong with muggles? At the end of the day, muggles and magicians were still _human_.

Another thing Newt didn’t appreciate, being in England was the lack of storms. France would thunder and bluster and roar and Newt swears he could feel the lightning striking down from the sky. The air would vibrate with electricity every time thunder boomed. Eira would smile at him, amused, and tighten the blanket around them on the roof, a dome-like shield enchantment protecting them from the elements.

“How do you stand it?” Theseus asks, huddling under Newt’s blanket and flinching as a ferocious roar ripped through the air. Newt lies against the headboard, unperturbed, and pats Theseus’s dirty blond hair. Theseus curls up against Newt’s teddy bear, one of the last things given to him by his mother. Even though Theseus was four years older to Newt’s mere five, he could still have childish fears.

(Newt has childish fears too. Being all alone in that cottage, nobody to talk to other than the willow tree which never offers a word back …)

* * *

 

Róisín and her husband, Gwilym—but preferred to be called William for simplicity’s sake—weren’t in the mood to entertain Theseus’ childish fears so the child tentatively snuck into Newt’s room who was awake and offered his adoptive brother the bed. Newt, who was awake, would offer his adoptive brother the bed, tilt his head and say, “It’s simply nature.”

* * *

 

Newt closes his eyes and feels the electricity humming in the air, bouncing every time the lightning stuck. He imagined the sparks dancing, like a waltz, moving to their own rhythm. He imagined a golden and glorious thunderbird, soaring through the sky, storms chasing its wings.

“Newt?” Theseus tentatively calls out. “Newtie?”

Newt opens his eyes to see Theseus staring at him warily, his face illuminated by the … _light_? Newt notices the energy sparkling in his hands. There was lightning, pale and static, stretching in between his fingertips. It lit the room dimly, enough to brighten the space between Theseus and Newt and emphasise the shadows in the room. It danced clumsily, not like the fluid grace like the light that his mother conjured out of thin, and fizzles out quickly after Newt had noticed it.

Theseus wouldn’t stop talking about it at breakfast, talking animatedly about the electricity Newt conjured. William nods along, grateful for the first sign of magic he saw from the boy. Newt sees the anxiety lining Auntie Róisín’s face. Not just that, Newt senses the queasiness coming from her, sick and uncomfortable and making Newt squirm in his seat. Newt thought she’d be happy about it but isn’t. Why were people so difficult to understand? 

It takes a frustrating amount of concentration to do it again. Newt would thrust his hands out and squeeze his eyes shut, imagining little sparks burning over his hands … to no avail. For Eira, it had appeared easily, like breathing. It’s not until after a year of trying of do whatever he did the night when Theseus hid in his room as the sky boomed and crackled that Newt realises, whatever he did can’t be forced. It needs to flow, like the water running fluidly in the stream.

Newt is outside on the meadows, a fair distance from the hippogriffs and people of the Scamander estate, shivering from the country chill. He breathes in, taking in the sharp scent of pine, closes his eyes and imagines the way Newt could feel the electricity in the air on a thundery night, surging, jumping and dancing. Newt forms a circle with his hands, hands running the curve of the imaginary shape he created in his mind. Newt vaguely remembers his mother doing when she summoned the light.

 _Just run with it_ , Newt thinks, _flow_ , _let it be_ …

Newt pops open his eyelids and let out a short bark of triumphant laughter. The lightning, popping and static, crackles between Newt’s hands. Newt can’t take his eyes away from the electricity sizzling in the cage his hands created. Newt keeps up the steady rhythm as best he could but he quickly finds out, trying to keeping the lightning sparking is like to stand on the tips of your toes as a ballerina would—you couldn’t stand still and accidentally allowed your heels to touch the ground. Not to mention, it _hurts_. Newt’s head grows foggy, his sight blurring at the edges.

He persists. If Mama could do this, then Newt could.

The lightning focuses, curling within itself to become a sphere of fulgurating energy the size of a jingle ball.  Newt gasps. He’s doing it. _He’s doing it!_

Everything then becomes too dizzy, as if blood was leaving his face. Newt’s knees suddenly refuse to hold him up any longer and the boy is kneeling on the muddy earth. The action causes his hands to fall out of position and the ball of lightning Newt worked so hard to conjure is gone, fizzling out into little sparks.

What’s happening? Newt doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know why the world is so blurry or why he feels like he’s having a fever or why he’s so _weak_. Newt falls to his side, dimly aware of the cold, wet grass brushing against his face and the warm blood flowing from his mouth and nose.

A fire. That is what he is like at the moment. A fire. A fire that is burning him to the very core, scorching against the shell of his skin, making him sweat all over. Newt rubs his face against the mud, finding relief in the cool, soft dampness of it.

Newt idly wonders if this what Mama felt like the months before she died, when she couldn’t get out of bed and was too sick to speak as he fades into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

When Newt comes to, he’s back in his bed. It’s soft and bouncy and probably stuffed full of moulted hippogriff feathers. The ceiling above him is a dull, boring beige. He notices he’s sleeping above the bed covers, dressed lightly in a singlet and shorts, sticky with sweat and when he flicks his eyes to the side, he’s surprised to find Auntie Róisín by his bedside, engrossed in a paper she was reading. He raises his head sleepily, letting out a drowsy moan. A cool towel drops off his head to the mattress. Auntie Róisín brings the paper down, something inside her _jolting_ , and places a gentle hand to Newt’s chest, coaxing him back to the bed.

“Wha…?” he blearily groans out, head still full of cotton.

“ _Shhhh_ …” Auntie Róisín coos at him. She takes the wet cloth on the mattress and wipes Newt’s sweaty forehead with it. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Her surprise from earlier turns to smooth and steady _calm_ , something Newt quickly catches on to soothe himself. It feels the beach Newt visited once with his parents where the waves rolled and crashed on the shore. Newt closes his eyes and for a moment, he thinks he’s back in that cottage in the French countryside, and his mother is by his bedside, weaving her hands through his short hair.

“Are you okay?” Auntie Róisín’s voice pulls Newt back to reality. Newt opens his eyelids, his gaze landing straight on Auntie Róisín’s bright green eyes. A rush of _anxiety/fear/forced-calm_ is projected to Newt and he quickly looks away, focusing on Auntie Róisín’s creased forehead. “Try not to look anyone in the eyes. Your mother said it tended to, er, be too much for her kind, particularly for the young ones.”

Newt gives Auntie Róisín a questioning look, scrunching his eyebrows and opening his mouth.

“Here,” Auntie Róisín says, picking up a glass of water from the bedside table and pulling out her wand from her wand pocket and rearranging Newt’s pillows, propping the boy up in a sitting position. She presses the rim of the glass to Newt’s mouth and allowed a steady stream of water to pour down his throat. Newt drinks it greedily, quickly asking for more. Newt is surprised by how much he needs water, his throat practically screaming out for the liquid. Auntie Róisín complies, allowing Newt to have as much water as he wants. When he’s sated, Newt asks what happened to him.

“You were asleep for three days,” Auntie Róisín tells him. Newt’s eyes widen in shock. “Fido—” her gaze flicks to the side. A young hippogriff, at the halfway mark to adulthood, laid fitfully asleep by Newt’s side. “—He found you unconscious on the meadow. Dragged you by the beak to the house and everything. It’s amazing how much Fido and all the other hippogriffs have warmed up to you in the space of a year.”

To be honest, it wasn’t _hard_. Hippogriffs were creatures and all creatures had simple needs that were easy for Newt to understand. If they needed space, Newt would allow it. If they needed food, he would give it. If they needed contact, Newt would stroke their feathers. Hippogriffs had their own way of behaving, of raising their young, of dealing with their politics, and it took a careful eye to understand them. As long as you understood their ways, they would give you no trouble.

“Guides always had a special kind of disposition to animals that immediately made you warm up to them,” Auntie Róisín went on. Newt sent a confused look to Auntie Róisín. “My sister, your mother, Eira, she wasn’t like other people. It was clear that when we were young, she had some sort of psychic ability. She couldn’t read other people’s thoughts but she could feel their emotions. But, it could be too much for her, leading her to withdraw from people.

“It wasn’t just the empathy, as she called it. She had this other ability—to make things out of thin air. Constructs, she called them. She made dancing bears, flying hippogriffs, falling snowflakes and stars dazzle in her hands all for me. But there was a price. As soon as she started using these powers, she would overwork herself. Her body couldn’t handle the stress, especially when she was young. She would sick so often and Mother and Father brought in everybody they could to cure her chronic illness.”

Auntie Róisín pauses, clenching her hands. “I couldn’t do anything to help. I was a child then. And I wasn’t like Eira. I would watch her suffer in her bed and I couldn’t help.” Auntie Róisín releases a breath and continued. “My parents brought in a wise woman from Asia, Actually, she was a sassy, young woman who made our most aggressive hippogriff gentle as a lamb.” Auntie Róisín looks out to the distance, as if remembering a memory. Newt guesses she probably is. “She was … _impressive_ to say the least.  Anyway, as I was saying, my parents brought this impressive woman in and she explained something to us.

“Among the magical community, there tended to be those born with unique abilities, much like animagi or morphomagi. In English, the woman called them Sentinels and Guides. In short, Guides could make energy—magical energy. Usually, all witches and wizards can make magical energy but for Guides, they naturally produced enough to grant them special powers like empathy and light construction … I think that’s what Eira called the whole you know—” Auntie Róisín breaks off her sentence, waving her hands around in a dramatic, flourishing manner.  “That thing when you made the snowflakes and bears. You know what I’m talking about.” Newt nods along, understanding what Auntie Róisín was talking about. “Any way, Guides have a range of abilities, all varying from each person who was deemed a guide. However, to have all these powers, it comes at a cost.

“These powers took a physical toll on all Guides. When they used their abilities, they run the risk of pushing too far. Basically, they got really sick because all of that magical energy produced is hurting them. You with me so far?”

Newt nods. That would at least explain why he was passed out for three days. His ‘light construction’ was too much for him to handle.

“This is where Sentinels comes in. You know how everybody has five senses—sight, sound, touch, smell and taste? For Sentinels, these senses are much more acute. They also tended to have offensive type powers, which is another thing I’m going to explain when you’re older. But more than that, they served as an outlet for the magical energy Guides make. They took the magical energy building up in Guides and channelled it out. Because of the energy they took, Guides wouldn’t get sick as much and … Guides wouldn’t die from their own, er, magic.”    

Newt sits quietly there, digesting all the information Auntie Róisín had given him. Some of the information was still unclear to Newt’s six-year-old mind no matter how much Auntie Róisín had tried to simplify it to him but he understood the basic points Auntie Róisín Róisín was talking about it. Newt was a Guide and his mother was a Guide as well. Guides could make magical energy, however the amount they created made them sick—so sick to the point where they could die. Sentinels took the magical energy, allowing Guides not to get sick.

“Newt?” Auntie Róisín calls out.

“Papa was Mama’s Sentinel, wasn’t he?” Newt says.

Auntie Róisín hesitates before saying, “Yes.”

 “And because he wasn’t there, Mama made too much magical energy and she died.”

Auntie Róisín doesn’t say anything. She just looks away to the side, her mood turning darker. Newt forces one hand open, splaying his fingers out. “I did it to remember Mama.” Auntie Róisín gives Newt an aghast look. Newt closes his eyes, summoning a small and meagre spark, careful not to push himself in his weak state. He clenches his fist, extinguishing the spark, not even feeling it burn his skin. When he opens his hand again, his palm is clear and pink. “I just—I really miss her. I thought if I could do this, then I—” Newt’s voice catches. “—I would be close to her again. Like she was with me again. I know she’s dead” Newt knows that well. He was the one who watched her die after all. “—but I just wanted to be with Mama again.”

Newt turns to Auntie Róisín, tears burning at the bottom of his eyes. “I still miss her. And I—is that bad of me? Is it bad for me to miss her?”

The next thing Newt is aware of are Auntie’s Róisín arms being held tightly around him and the scent of animal fur thick against his nose. “It’s okay,” Auntie Róisín murmurs. Newt bites down on his lip to stop the cry that’s threatening to escape him. “It’s okay,” she repeats, her words sounding more broken this time. “I miss her too. She was my best friend for _years_ and now she’s dead and I still miss her so bloody much. It’s okay to be sad, Newt. You can still miss Eira.” And that is when Newt begins to cry in earnest, sobs tearing its way out of him in earnest.

A tear or two did slip out of him when he saw Mama die and the weeks that followed after when his mind drew back to her, but now was when he mourned her in earnest. All that time he was trying to make light dance on his fingertips was just a desperate, pathetic attempt to be with his mother. Newt knew the facts—his mother was dead and you couldn’t bring back the dead—but accepting them is _hard._

“I just— _hic—_ wanted to be with her again,” Newt chokes out. “I just wanted— _hic_ —everything to go back the— _hic_ —w-way it was b-before she died.”

“I know, Newt.” Newt is vaguely aware of the hand carding its way through his hair and presses closer to Auntie Róisín’s chest. His tears wet the front of Auntie Róisín’s robes and he feels shame welling up in him for staining her robes. “It’s okay. You can cry all you want.”

Newt does so, until his eyes sting from crying and his voice goes hoarse.

* * *

 

It’s a year later when Newt hesitantly calls Auntie Róisín ‘Mum’. It’s not ‘Mama’. No, Mama will always be the woman who lived in the cottage with far out in the French countryside, far from prying eyes.

But calling Auntie Róisín ‘Mum’, it’s safer. He’s not forgetting Mama but he is moving on.

Auntie Róisín is surprised, mouth dropping open, until she smiles at him and ruffles Newt’s hair. Newt smiles back at Auntie—No, _Mum_ and realises, it’s okay, he’s let go of Mama.


	2. With Silence Comes Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt goes to Hong Kong and makes a friend. Because Newt needs friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any foreign translations are done with Google Translate. If there are any errors, please notify me in the comments. Also, Cantonese is being used as the location used is in Hong Kong. Also I want to point out that, while being a Sentinel and Guide can be really awesome at times, it can really suck. Also, pointing it out, ALL GUIDES ARE HIGH-FUNCTIONING AUTISTS! YEAH!
> 
> Also, worship my beta, unawesumlyme, for this chapter. Without her, this chapter would have been so grammatically and punctually incorrect.

Newt can tell that the Indian girl dancing in the courtyard is a Guide. He’s not sure how; it’s an instinctive pull telling him. She’s a bit older than him, her skinny frame draped in a bright blue Indian  _ Shalwar Kameez _ . Her long dark hair is tied up in a high ponytail, swishing with her movements. There’s no music playing—the girl must be imagining it in her head, as she moves fluidly across the smooth stone, the  _ payal  _ bells fastened around her ankles jingling with each step. The most striking thing about her are the two ribbons of water, one enveloping each henna-painted hand, gracefully following her movements. Newt thinks they’re light constructions, not actual water, just like his lightning.  

The courtyard is well-maintained and picturesque. It’s spacious; enough to allow a group of children to run rampant. There are two large rectangular garden beds off to each side of the courtyard, holding green and healthy tree, bordered by blooming flowers. The stone floor looks so clean and smooth that Newt thinks he can walk around it barefoot and not get hurt. The centre of the courtyard, where the girl is, has some kind of emblem in the middle that he can’t make out from where he is standing. 

The girl spins and comes to a stop to where Newt is hiding, between the red pillars, eyes narrowed and bright as blue topaz. Her graceful pose shatters away as soon as she sees Newt, the water evaporating into the air in a fine mist. She takes a step back, arms awkwardly wrapped around herself. 

She shouts something at him in a foreign language—Hindi, Newt guesses—but judging from how Newt sensed how her relaxed, serene mood changed to tense and worried, she must be asking him ‘what are you doing?!’ 

Newt stutters, unsure of what to do. Newt doesn’t speak Hindi. What if the girl doesn’t speak English? Mum isn’t here. She went off with that Chinese woman—Qiao—and her Native American husband whose name Newt couldn’t recall; they went somewhere else in the large house to talk about adult things. Mum gaped like a fish when she saw Qiao and she said was the ‘striking’ woman who visited Newt’s biological mother and revealed her Guide status. 

The girl says something else, this time in halting Cantonese. Newt supposes it makes sense for the girl to change languages seeing as how they were in Hong Kong. Newt looks away from her sharp eyes and mumbles a pathetic “I’m sorry” to mollify the girl’s temper, which had been steadily rising like a campfire. The fire in the girl stops and dies down. The girl walks to him, her steps unsure, approaching slowly until she suddenly stops a metre from him. 

“ _ Xiāndǎo _ ?”   The girl says hesitantly, pointing at him. 

Newt furrows his eyes at that. Qiao called him that earlier. Newt thinks it is the Chinese word for Guide. He repeats the word, nodding, accidently getting one of the syllables wrong. The girl nods and repeats the word, much slowly this time. Newt says it again, much more fluidly this time. The girl makes a sound of approval from the back of her throat. 

“Meena,” she says, pointing to herself _. “Aapkaa naam kyaa hai?” _ Meena points to him. 

Newt isn’t sure what that means. He thinks she’s asking what’s his name is. “N-Newt,” he tells her, finger pointed at himself. Meena repeats the name, including the initial stammer. Newt quickly waves his hand and shakes his head. Meena frowns at him, puzzled. 

_ “Newt _ ,” he says. 

“Neeeww—Neewt?” Meena echoes with difficulty. 

“Yes, that’s it. More or less.” Newt sighs and goes to sit on the floor. He leans against the pillar and closes his eyes, appreciating the silence of the oriental house. Things had gone downhill for Newt in the last year, after he found out he was a Guide. At first, Mum thought she could handle Newt’s newfound abilities without need for Newt to be sent to a strange school overseas for months on end (as was the case with Newt’s biological mother, Eira) but his Guide abilities had been putting a lot of stress on his small, weak body. 

It became commonplace for Newt to get sick. At least twice a month, Newt was isolated in his room, burning feverishly, with nothing but books and family members who treated him like he was made of delicate glass. Mum had forbidden any and all hippogriffs from entering Newt’s room, believing and repeatedly whispering that the creatures would mess with his recovery. She also said to keep his light construction to a minimum. He had been keeping it to a minimum! 

Well, Newt finally managed to make multiple distinct, recognisable shapes with his lightning … Okay, he was not using his light as little as he promised.

Newt’s situation had become worse, with the Scamander household becoming …  _ loud _ . Not loud in the sense of noise, but rather, in the sense of emotion. People broadcasted their emotions loudly—happiness, annoyance, hatred … it was worse when somebody got sad. Newt had no idea how to handle somebody being sad. They weren’t like creatures whose needs were simple. Humans were a complex species. They needed something more than simple comfort and words and assurances. 

The few times Newt had been in a crowd, he had passed out from the overload and intensely varying emotion, all of it being too much for his small body to take. 

At times, Newt felt like a burden to his Mum’s family. With all his fussing needs, frequent bouts of sickness and his basic needs as a child … he couldn’t help but be ashamed at the inadvertent trouble he’s always making. Mum, Theseus and Finley (Mum’s husband and Theseus’ father) all told him that it was fine. However, Newt knew it was anything but “fine”. 

Mum had sifted through her parents’ and her sister’s old letter until she found one addressed to Mama’s old Guide teacher. Sentinels and Guides tended to be quite rare and were a rather niche, tightknit community. There was a special school opened to any Guides and Sentinels looking to learn about and control their own abilities all the way in Hong Kong, China, where Newt has now found himself. Newt thinks it’s not really a school; it’s rather more a boarding house offering special tuition, considering the sparse amount of people he’s seen since entering. 

Newt and Mum travelled all the way to Hong Kong via international port-key. Mum had given him a pain-killing potion before they portkey’d to Hong Kong regularly throughout the trip and after, when they had to travel to the Sanctuary—the house Newt and Mum were in—due to the large amounts of people with which they had to surround themselves.It’s primary function was to muffle the noisy emotions they felt. She did not however give Newt a pain-killing potion within the few hours before before port-keying, claiming that it would make him even more nauseous and sick.

Newt remembers how he was so surprised and shocked when he walked through the entrance with Mum at his side. Everything was so blissfully quiet … it was a luxury Newt could not afford at home, even if it was so far in the countryside. Many people tended to express their emotions with no filter. It was like many hands dragging nails down a chalkboard. But here, in the Sanctuary, there were no deafening, annoying emotions blasting Newt from all sides. There was just  _ silence _ ….

Qiao had explained the silence to be a result of the many wards and charms that existed to allow Guides a measure of protection from their empathy. Everybody here learnt to put filters for their own emotions and all Guides were taught to protect themselves from being attacked by emotions that weren’t their own.  

Newt opens his eyes, seeing the courtyard still tranquil and beautiful. The girl, Meena, has taken her seat beside him, cross-legged with her hands in her lap. She says something in Hindi that Newt doesn’t understand but acknowledges with a slight nod of his head. Newt likes her, which is rare because Newt doesn’t typically like children his age. They tended to be loud, with both their emotions and words, and required you to act a certain way around them. Any peculiarity you showed—which Newt often did—and they would shun you. Meena was calm (unlike earlier), with her filtered emotions and reserved energy. 

“I see you’ve met Meena,” calls out a woman’s voice. Newt turns to see three adults—Mum, Qiao and her husband—approaching him and immediately stands, surprised. Meena picks herself up, awkwardly fidgeting with her dress. It isn’t often that people sneak up on him. Newt usually senses them before they do. Qiao’s English was flawless and didn’t hold a hint of an accent. “I trust you two are getting along.” The adults came to a stop before the children, their heights, dominating over the children’s short stature. 

“Wha—I—Yes, Ma’am.” Newt bows his head respectfully. Newt hopes that he was making friends. It was hard to get along with people. They tended to find Newt …  _ odd _ . 

Qiao kneels down to Newt. Her eyes are on his forehead, Newt notices, not quite meeting his eyes.  _ Guide _ , Newt thinks. Qiao smiles warmly at him. “Please, call me Qiao. We’re going to know each other for a long, long time and I believe it’s best if we get  personally acquainted.” Qiao holds out her hand to Newt. Newt takes the hand and shakes it timidly. “Good boy.” To Meena, she says something in rapid fire Hindi. Meena nods and scurries away, going somewhere in the large house. Qiao sends a look to the Native American man that has him following after Meena. “I’d like to speak with you and your aunt—”

“Mum,” Newt interrupts her. 

Qiao blinks at him. “I-I’m sorry?”

“She’s my mum now, not my aunt.” Behind him, a warm rush of happiness goes through Mum. Newt flinches at how strongly the sensation of joy is broadcasted. 

“Right, your mum,” Qiao corrects herself. “I need to speak to you and your mum about a few things.” She stands to her full height and flashes Newt a smile. “Come along now.” 

* * *

Newt shifts nervously on the settee, eyes darting around the sitting room to give his mind something to focus on other than his nerves. The red tiles, the Native American and Chinese antiques hanging on the walls, the books neatly shelved in the bookcases, the circular glass table … Newt runs his hand over the smooth wooden arm of the settee and isn’t surprised when there is no dust gathered on his fingers. Every inch of the Sanctuary looked like it was cleaned meticulously, either by charms, a dedicated staff, or both, from top to bottom.

When Mum commented on how orderly and clean the Sanctuary was, Qiao said it was to allow Guides and Sentinels to have a ‘safe, peaceful environment so their abilities wouldn’t plague them’. Too much mess, too much disorganization - it had a tendency to distress Sentinel-enhanced senses, particularly young Sentinels, because there was too much information to process. It also allowed Guides to think properly without the clutter distressing them.

Mum sits on the other end of the settee, hands folded on her lap,  a troubled look on her face. She’s uneasy about something, anxiety and worry buzzing around her. Newt has seen this before many times—when he’s sick, when he’s showing off his latest light construction to Theseus, when Mum thinks Newt isn’t paying attention. Newt knows she’s worried about something. He just doesn’t know what to do, or how to fix it. 

“You are aware of what Guides are capable of?” Qiao asks softly, “The light construction, the empathy?”

“I-I know as much as Mum told me,” Newt replies. 

“And you know how Guides die if they don’t have a Sentinel?” 

Newt’s gaze drifts to the floor beneath him. “Their magic burns them up.”

“Just burns them up?” Qiao softly questions further, “Is that all you know?”

Newt freezes. He saw what happened to Mama moments before she died. He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches the fabrics of his pants. 

“Newt was there during my sister’s last moments,” Mum interrupts solemnly. “I arrived two weeks later to visit Newt and my sister to help them out until she ... died. I didn’t know that by the time I arrived, Eira had died.”

Newt looks up and Qiao studying the both of them with an unreadable look on her face. Newt is mildly unsettled by the fact that he can’t sense what she’s feeling. Qiao was a like cool rock in a sea of loud, blaring emotions. 

“I understand,” Qiao says, nodding. “I’m sorry. For distressing both of you and for your loss. I knew Eira personally.” Newt tilts his head curiously at Qiao. Qiao lets out a nervous little laugh and tells him, “She would spend hours in the garden, spending all her time with plants instead of listening to her teachers at lessons. She would get mud  _ everywhere _ .” 

Qiao sighs before continuing, “I can teach you how to control your empathy—how to block out other people’s emotions or at least lower how strongly you can feel them. But it’s going to take a few months, maybe a year at most, to get your empathy to a manageable level.”

“Would I need to stay here?” Newt asks. Newt isn’t sure how he feels about moving to Hong Kong. Moving to England was hard enough. But there is something being immersed in another culture, about the sensation in his feet when he travelled, that fascinates him so. Not to mention, the feelings Newt received from other people could stop being so  _ loud _ all the time.  

“Yes, but you’re free to go home any time you want.”

Newt looks to Mum unsurely. He doesn’t know what to do. On one hand, he doesn’t want to leave. On the other, he wants to control his empathy. 

“You can talk to your mother about it. There’s no need to make your decision right away,” Qiao tells him, correctly assuming the reason for his apprehension, “There’s another thing we need to talk about;. It concerns the magic energy inside you.”

“What about it?”

“As a guide, you produce an abnormal amount of magical energy, leading to you having special abilities—empathy, light construction, a link to the Spirit World—” Newt nods accordingly, if not a little impatiently because he’s heard all this from Mum.  _ “Yes, I know you know all about this.”  _ Newt gasps, his eyes widening in shock. Did she read his mind? “I don’t read minds; I’ve just had a lot of time to learn how to read people,” Qiao informs him. “Where was I? Oh yes, but the magical energy builds up inside you and clogs special vital points where magic is supposed to flow, which is why you get sick so often even if you don’t use your powers. Magic becomes clogged up at these points and it can’t flow like it should.

“There’s a procedure that can be done. Considering your size and height, it should only take a day at most.  Using my wand, I can use it to draw special markings along your chi paths to stop your magic from clogging up and flow. However, with age, the potency of these markings begins to break down, usually around your late twenties. The procedure can only be done once and it has the most effectiveness during childhood—”

“Wait—” Newt interrupts her, fidgeting with his fingers. The anxiety smoking out of his mum like pungent tobacco causes Newt’s nervousness to increase and Qiao is using too many big words. “What—What does po-potency mean? And effectiveness mean? You’re using too many big words I don’t understand.”

Qiao studies Newt, eyebrow slanting down in sympathy. For a moment, Newt thinks he’s said something inappropriate again and fully expects a scolding from both Mum and Qiao. Adults didn’t like it when children talked out of place. But instead of admonishing Newt, Qiao explains: “Potency means power in other words—strength. Effectiveness also means giving the best results. Are you okay for me to continue explaining, Newt?”

“Yes …?” Newt answers, hating how unsure he sounds. If it becomes too much, he can stop Qiao. She seems like she’ll take it well, seeing as how she didn’t scold for interrupting and asking a question. 

“I am not going to lie to you, Newt. The procedure will  _ hurt _ .” Qiao pauses there to let the emphasis hang heavily in the air. “ - have you ever broken a leg before? An arm?”

“O-Once. Theseus  accidentally spooked Fido—one of my Mum’s  hippogriffs —and I was right next to her when it happened. She didn’t mean to, she was just scared, but she broke my arm.” Newt runs a hand over the faint scarring, the claw marks, on his right freckled arm in memory. 

Newt wasn’t sure who was panicking more at the time: Theseus for unintentionally causing his brother pain, Newt for the agony a broken arm put him through, or Fido for being scared. Emotions were running high and all over the place to even take stock of the situation. After that, Theseus had become very protective of Newt, constantly checking if he was fine, fed, sleeping properly and taking all his proper medication. It was touching, if a bit overbearing at times. 

“It’s going to hurt much worse than that,” Qiao stirs Newt from his memory, “During the procedure, you’ll feel a burning sensation as my wand runs over your body, as if you’re being branded.” 

Newt shivers uneasily at the thought of branding. He’s seen a few of the hippogriffs Mum adopted bearing ugly marks of ownership that never fails to makes him in pity and horror. 

“However, after the procedure … That’s when the pain will be at its worst . Your body will be adjusting to the markings and your magic will be flowing through you faster than usual. Not only will you be incredibly sick, you’ll be too sick to move, even to speak. You’ll be lucky if you’re unconscious for  most of the recuperating time. You must also be in bed for four to seven days depending on how well your body takes to the markings.”

“What-What happens if I don’t have the procedure?” Newt inquires curiously. 

“Without the procedure, you’ll live up to fifteen years until your magic consumes you - unless you have a Sentinel to take in all the excess before then. Seventeen, in some cases. With the markings directing your magical energy, without a Sentinel, it’s estimated you’ll have until your late twenties if you don’t have a Sentinel before then.”

Newt stays quiet, taking all of this. All of it feels so  _ serious _ and  _ real  _ to him that it  _ scares _ him. He wrings his hands and stares at the tiled floor in contemplation. 

“I’ll leave you two alone to discuss it. I’ll be back in orty-five minutes or so to see if you’ve made a decision.”

When Qiao leaves, a terrible silence settles in the air around Newt and Mum. Newt stays quiet for five minutes, trying hard not to think of anything. He tries not to think about being a Guide, tries not to think that being a Guide is going to be the thing that kills him; he tries to imagine himself back in the cottage in France. Newt doesn’t say anything about the painful out pour of fear, anxiety, and panic coming from Mum nor does he say anything about how often he’s noticed that those mix of emotions whenever Mum comes across the topic of Newt’s health or his being a Guide. 

Newt awkwardly rubs his sweaty palms together and breathes in. The air smells fine, clean and pure, reminding Newt of the peculiar wet scent of rain in the countryside. 

“I’m scared,” Newt admits, both to himself and to Mum. He chokes on the last word and tries to ignore the burning sensation gathering at his eyes. His mum shuffles over, throwing a warm hand over Newt’s already hot body. Newt leans into her, his head cushioned on her chest. “I-I don’t wanna end up like Mama.”

Newt lifts his head up. Mum hovers him, lips pressed tight and a crease formed in between her furrows brows. “I don’t k-know what to do. What do you think I should do?”

Mum’s hands cups his cheeks tenderly, as if she was handling a baby hippogriff, and presses her forehead against his. Something warm trails down his cheek — a tear? Newt isn’t sure if the tears are from him or his Mum. 

“I want you to live,” Mum answers him, “If you don’t want to go through with it, i-it’s fine. I’m not going to be happy, but whatever choice you make I’ll support it. If you want to do it, I’m going to be here the whole time. To hold your hand, to be your shoulder to cry on. I just—I don’t want you to die.”

“I think … I think I should stay. Afterwards. When the procedure is done - ,” Newt screws the bottoms of his palms into his temples, “ - Everything is so  _ loud _ and I’m going to go crazy if I have to stand it any longer. But I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want you to think I’m—”  _ leaving you behind _ .

“Hey,” Mum says, “I said it’s fine whatever you do. If you want to stay and control your empathy, I’m right behind you. I … I can probably stay a month at most before I have to go back home. But I can always visit,” she assures him, “Theseus will probably visit too, he’ll want to see his ‘precious little baby hippogriff of happiness’.”

Newt lets out an exasperated huff of laughter at the bad nickname. Mum moves in to hug Newt, strong, safe arms encasing Newt and pulling him closer. Not for the first time, Newt thinks about how lucky he is to have a second mother after he lost the first one. 

Qiao comes in a while after, finding Newt and Mum wrapped around each other like a lifeline. Newt keeps his voice steady as he tells her that yes, he wants to do the procedure and he would like to stay afterwards, to understand his  abilities as a Guide. Qiao is calm as she goes into explaining the procedure more deeply in detail, stopping occasionally to allow Newt to understand all that she has said. She tells him the procedure will take place within the  next week and until then he and Mum could stay in the Sanctuary, training and preparing for the procedure. 

“Do you have any creatures?” Newt asks.

Qiao frowns at the sudden change of topic. Newt hopes Qiao has creatures. He hasn’t seen any so far but some creatures were really good at hiding. “Um,” Qiao says, “sometimes our daemons materialise into this world and they take all forms. But, we don’t keep any animals here. Animal hair and fur tends to set off Zone Outs and Sensory Overloads in young Sentinels or Sentinels who don’t have control of their senses - ” 

Newt slumps his shoulders in disappointment. “ - There should be some creatures nearby though, cats and dogs and, oh, we get flocks of bifangs passing through here sometimes. My husband’s considerably interested in creatures than I am. There are many creatures in Hong Kong if you know where to look.”  

Newt brightens up at that. At least there were creatures. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fist chap is up. Don't worry, the mythology of Guides and Sentinels will be more thoroughly explained throughout the fic.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciate as they fuel my writing. Also, if you've seen any grammatical or punctual mistakes, can you point them out in the comments.


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